


Learning to Fly

by evocates



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics, Superman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent runs away from home to escape the unwanted attentions of Prince Lex of House Luthor, and runs straight from the frying pan to the fire. But there might be more to this 'Batman' than the eye sees... Cowritten with regasssa@LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> skykissesthesea@LJ is wonderful to work with, and please leave her feedback for her awesome art! ♥ I have to confess that while I posted this, regasssa@LJ worked a lot harder on the fic and the editing.

The night was dark and thunder was rolling softly in the distance. Lightning flashed every few seconds, coming ever closer as the storm front evolved, and the air itself trembled. This was one of those nights that legends were made of.

 **Crack-ka-boom**

Lightning split the clouds, illuminating a tall, dark building. The Wayne Manor. The gates were closed tight, as they had been for longer than the husbands of the forest could remember, the hinges half-rusted from disuse. It was said that the Prince still lived here, even as the kingdom and the towns forgot about their monarchy and instead took up the democracy that ruled the land of Gotham. They remembered the Prince nonetheless, spreading legends about his ice blue eyes, his perpetual sneer, his unkindness and rough demeanour--that he would turn an old woman away on a cold, stormy night like this one. They said that he had no heart, no care for anyone but himself, a cruelty for which he bore a curse.

The thunder struck again.

Batman stood at his window, looking outwards. A night of legends it might be, but to him, it was like any other night; a night without hope. He turned away, walking further into the castle, to where there was no light. No light to see what had become of him; the form in which he was destined to one day die.

His feet made faint, clicking noises on the hardwood floors.

Far away, up the path, a hapless soul wandered closer.

Clark Kent was a young orphan with stories of his own. Found by his parents in a cornfield, he had spent his childhood dreaming of a life far away from the tiny village of Smallville; a life of romance and adventure. He was a bright, light-hearted soul, and everyone in the village would smile and wave at him when he picked up supplies for their little farm, or groceries to bake his mother's sweet apple pies.

It was just that bright lust for life - that passion - that had brought the hungry eye of Lex Luthor, the Prince of Metropolis, to lust after him, and Clark knew that the only way to escape the Prince's clutch was to leave Smallville altogether, to go outside of its monarchy and enter as a stranger into the foreign lands of Gotham, across the water.

The storm was roaring and bitter, rain threatening to spill at any moment, and the lightning struck down with a vicious crack, bringing down a bough to block the path behind him and, making Clark's horse rear and bolt and scream underneath him. He held on by effort alone, fought the racing gallop for control, then climbed down, his heart thundering, and lead the horse on through the storm, into the dark night toward what had seemed, in that flash, to be a castle.

The Prince's castle.

The gates when he reached them were solid with ancient rust, twined and knotted shut with weeds and vines, and beyond them the large windows stood dark and empty. To Clark it was clear that there was nobody here, and if that was the case, then they surely wouldn't mind if Clark came in; if he and his horse slept in one of the old, cobweb filled stables, and left when the storm had passed.

It took all of his - and Lois' - effort to open the gate, the horse pushing her head right down and driving her hooves deep into the mud for traction. Eventually the huge gates shifted enough to allow the two of them inside, though the wind - was that the wind? - blew the gates shut behind them after they entered.

In the stables Clark found old straw, but didn't trust the dried, dusty hay not to make the horse sick, instead picking apples from the tiny orchard and getting half drowned as the heavens opened for his efforts. Only then, with the horse fed and happily chomping, and a couple of apples in his own pocket, did he break with good manners and slip through a servant's doorway into the castle itself, still dripping wet and looking for somewhere to get dry, or perhaps some clothes to change into.

The castle was dark, eerie and terrifying. He felt watched.

"Is someone there?"

Nobody replied, and Clark chastised himself, furiously. _'Come on, Clark. It's just your imagination. There's nothing to be afraid of, it's just an old castle.'_

Up in the tallest tower of the West Wing, the Batman lurked, arched over his tiny looking glass; his eyes and ears to the outside world. He had long since stopped looking, telling himself furiously that the world out there no longer mattered, that he would not linger in something that he could no longer be a part of, but the castle had _tingled_ when it had been touched, and he had felt it too. Something new.

It had been years - decades even - since someone had even tried to enter the castle. And here was this boy - this beautiful boy - with eyes of the deepest blue; the same magical, inhuman blue of the rose in its jar in the room at the furthest corner of the castle. He picked the apples in the orchards without the branches rearing at him for the offence, startling because as Batman well knew, the tree hadn't even let _him_ do that for years, and he was the Lord of the Manor.

He watched the boy as he took every step. His youth made Batman feel old. He had been trapped here, alone and never aging, time marked only by the setting and rising of the sun each day and the slowly falling petals of the rose that was by his bedside.

 _You will only be saved when someone falls in love with you._

And yet he had been given the appearance of a monster. Perhaps one might say that his appearance now fit his insides, for he had always been monstrous, ruling his kingdom with an iron fist. Now the kingdom was no longer his own, his people deciding to rule themselves instead, and he was trapped in this castle, forced to watch them as they lived their lives without the ability to join in. To lead them. To be able to breathe the same air.

Mistakes. He had all the time in the world to dwell on them now.

He lid his eyes as he watched the boy slip into the castle, waved his hand. Immediately, the hallways began to light up, torches ignited in flame, oil lamps hissing to life. The hallways would lead him to one of the sitting rooms in the castle, where a loud fire was already roaring, burning nonexistent wood. Batman closed his eyes, pressed his hand against the walls, and let the walls themselves connect him to this monstrous stage, watching as Alfred - the Manor that had once been a man - worked his magic.

He wondered what a boy like this, so beautiful and so pure, was doing here. Wondered why he had chosen the servant's entrance, of all things, when the main doors hadn't been locked for years. Waiting for the answers, Batman swore that he would watch and see--not interfere, for who would stay any longer if confronted with the great Batman, a beast created for fear? In the mean time, Alfred created a meal of soup and bread - simple farmer's fare - it forming from midair, hot and waiting on the table.

He was a silent presence in the castle, never able to speak, his spirit imbued in the stones itself. Still efficient, still knowing nonetheless. Alfred still hoped that perhaps someone would one day be able to love Batman, still hoped that they would both be able to return to the form that was once their own.

His Prince, turned into a giant, monstrous bat--someone must be able to love him. Perhaps it would be this boy.

Deep down in the corridors, the cold, empty castle was coming to life.

Every step Clark took, the more alive the castle seemed to be. The walls were warmer rather than the cold of before, and someone had been through and lit all of the torches recently, guiding the way through the house, through to a warm, grand room with a roaring fire.

Common sense told him that something strange was at work here. That maybe, like Hansel and Gretel, he should run away from such a good thing presented to him so openly, without a face to link it to, but the fact was that the warm room was just what he needed, and the food that lay on the table... Soft bread, warm soup; it was more than he had hoped for.

Clark gathered both up and carried them over to the fire, stripping off his soaking top and even wetter pants and hanging them across the guard that kept the coals from spitting out into the room. Shivering, and immensely cold, he pulled himself as close to the fire as he could, and after one more wary glance around began to eat, swallowing down the soup while it was still hot, then picking his way through the still-warm bread.

When he was done, and much drier, but still almost naked, he turned to look around, wondering where the servants were that had brought the food, curious about who lived in a castle like this, and kept it so beautifully clean.

He took the apple from his pocket and raised it up.

"I hope you don't mind. I took a few apples from the orchard. I--I've travelled a long way, from the distant realm of Metropolis, and my horse and I are lost, hungry, and frightened by the storm."

He looked about again, then placed the apple down on the table top as though in some kind of exchange. An apology for taking what didn't belong to him.

"If there's anyone there, please. I only wish to thank my lord for his hospitality."

From the faraway shadows that linked them the Batman looked on. He made sure that he was comfortable, and drank in the sight of his wary traveller, hungry to please him.

There was caution in the boy's steps as he followed the lights, but he ate nonetheless. Batman was glad, but it was a distant sort of feeling, because he was entirely caught up by the miles upon miles of flawless, bronzed skin revealed by the clothing that the boy so nonchalantly took off. He was in an alien place, with no answers to his questions, with food that had no server, and yet for some reason he was brave enough to expose himself so thoroughly. To leave his back open without any armour to protect himself. For a moment, Batman wondered if the boy was foolish, or simply far too trusting.

But he couldn't deny that his beauty struck him, and struck him hard. It had been years - or decades, he couldn't remember exactly - since he had seen another human being, and yet the first to walk into his life had such a perfection of form that Batman was starting to wonder if his mind was simply playing tricks on him. If the boy was but a mere illusion, conjured up by his mind in a desperate attempt to hold onto hope. To hope for something better than this continuous, unbroken loneliness. To hope for some kind of salvation before the rose's petals fell and Batman died to leave behind a legacy of a haunted castle.

He couldn't show himself. Not yet. He would only terrify the boy as he was- he might wish to thank Batman for his hospitality, but the moment he saw him... Batman had no illusions of what he looked like. The monster that he was, now.

Instead he only looked further, and sparked his power over the castle again. The lights started to come to life again, leading to a well-furnished guest room with a large canopy bed. A single thought, and Alfred obliged, letting loose the chiffon blinds that surrounded the bed.

At the same time, the wardrobe opened of its own accord, and large sleeping clothes laid themselves out on the chair near the bed, along with a folded towel.

Back in the sitting room, Clark raised his eyes, looking up into the deep corners of the room as he waited for a sign; something to show that he wasn't alone. The sign - the _apple_ \- rolled towards Clark on its own. It was his. There was no need to apologize.

 _Stay._

Clark caught it before it could fall off the table, and raised his eyes again, trying to peer between the air and somehow pick out an invisible man. A something that could have moved the apple. There was nothing there.

"Magic?" It was the only explanation. "There's someone there, isn't there? Are you saying that it's okay?" The lights seemed to glow a little brighter for a moment, then dimmed again, and Clark broke into a grateful, bright smile.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!"

Pulling the apple to his chest, Clark stepped back, gathering his still damp clothes from where they rest beside the fire, and setting off along the freshly lit corridor, curiosity guiding him.

"Where are you taking me?"

Along the hall, up a set of stairs and into a beautiful, glorious bedroom. Clark couldn't help his shock, mouth falling open. The room was as large as the ground floor of his father's house, back at home, and the bed was huge, and elegant. It was clear that he was meant to sleep here.

"I couldn't possibly..."

He glanced around, completely starstruck, then carefully folded and put down his clothes, stepping over to touch the outfit. It was for sleeping in, obviously, but it was of a rich, expensive fabric; something more expensive than all of his wardrobe at home put together.

"I don't even know how to begin to thank you." And he reconsidered, because the beginning was obvious: " _Thank you."_

The apple went down on the bedside cabinet, and quickly, unselfconsciously, he stripped out of the last of his wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones, gratitude playing every moment in his smile. They were perfect. Suddenly he was very aware of how tired he was. The bed felt soft and embracing, unlike the hard ground he'd been sleeping on in his travels, the straw mattresses in the inns. He yawned.

"I... Just for tonight, okay? I don't want to impose."

The boy's glee seemed to light up the whole house, and Batman felt his own breath catch in his throat. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he felt the sun against his back; the sun that he had not felt against his skin for decades. His lips parted, teeth and fangs gleaming in the candlelight of his rooms, and in this moment - in this one second between the inquisitive look on the boy's face and his gorgeous smile - Batman fell in love.

It was utterly ridiculous. He didn't even know the boy's name, and he would be leaving tomorrow, wouldn't he? Leaving this haunted castle and its monster--no. No. Batman couldn't imagine letting him leave. Not now.

He drank in the sight of him as he undressed again. Miles upon miles of unblemished skin and those eyes... Batman raised a hand, and curled his fingers in. The canopy shut, closing around the boy's figure even as the lights in the castle dimmed until only the lightning outside provided a source.

But Batman's eyes were suited to the dark, and he wasn't exactly using his eyes to look, anyhow. Every article of furniture in the house was his eyes, and he watched the slow flutter of the boy's eyelids as they shut; he watched the pink lips part as he breathed; watched his tiny, unconscious smile. He had beautiful hair, falling all over his face, lending an even more ethereal quality to his looks.

Batman closed his eyes and knew he was lost.

He couldn't let this boy leave. He couldn't. Because if he did, then Batman would snap the rose into half and tear out all the petals himself.

No. No he couldn't.

In the morning, the canopy would be closed still, but Alfred had pulled the curtains open. There would be a pair of silk slippers on the side of the bed, and the smell of freshly-cooked bacon and eggs and sausages would be waiting in the sitting room once more. The apple from last night would be polished to a shine, and sitting beside the plate - a dessert ready.

In the morning, the lonely orchard would be filled to brimming with trees and fruits. Golden and red apples, brightly coloured oranges and lemons... fruits of every kind, blooming even in winter, their brilliance stark against the white blankness of the falling snow.

In the morning, the gates of the castle would be locked, and nothing in the world would allow them to be opened. If the boy tried to climb them- no, no he wouldn't.

His horse would be trapped and left behind, and the Master of the Castle knew that the boy would not leave her to die.

 

* * * * *

 

Clark rose in the very early hours of the morning, when the rain that had fallen torrentially during the night had finally stopped, leaving behind puddles and wet grass, the smell of ozone clinging to the castle itself. He picked up his apple, pulled on the slippers and head down to the sitting room, following the scent of bacon.

Again he thanked the castle and its unknown owner, and again he ate without hesitation; without question, and once he was done, and dressed, and still holding the apple close to his chest like a memento rather than food, he set off to groom and tack his horse, and lead her up the path toward the gates.

They were locked.

Nothing he could do would open them, and there was no key to be seen. The servant's entrance, too, was locked tight. The walls were high and impenetrable, and though he could climb over them...

"It's okay, Lois," he reassured, softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

The horse whinnied gratefully to him as he took off the saddle and bridle, letting her loose in the grounds and heading back up to the castle with the heavy saddle hung over his arm. His boots were already wet with mud, which he was careful not to track into the stables when he reached them again.

Setting down the saddle, he head back into the house. Someone had locked the gates, that was for sure, which meant he wasn't alone here.

"Hello? I'm very grateful for what you've done for me, but am I a prisoner here? I don't even know your name." A pause. He hadn't given his own either, had he? "Mine's Clark. What's yours?"

There was no fear. No fear in the boy- in Clark's eyes, even when he tried the gates and they did not give. No fear, only faith, smiling at his jailer like it was a mistake. He obviously knew that there was a chance for him to be a prisoner, and yet he had remained so calm.

Was he particularly stupid? No. There was no dullness in those blue eyes, only a certain sense of caution. Had he, for some reason, managed to stumble upon a beautiful man who had no sense of fear? Who was not cowed by the size of the Manor, by the invisible servants, by how the castle itself seemed to move on its own, without anything to guide it?

For a second, Batman let himself have that hope. That this boy who had captured his heart with a single smile might not be afraid of him. That he would not cringe back from a giant bat that could speak. That he would not hide away. That he would be able to see Batman beyond the monstrous outside, and somehow learn to love him.

That one day, the rose in the jar would disappear, no longer needed.

He held onto the courage tight. It was a single line of light, and Batman threw open the windows of his room. His clawed feet stepped on the ledge, and he threw himself outwards, his leather wings flapping out and catching the currents. He was at the back of the house, watching Clark through the leaves of a tree, and he was absolutely silent as he swooped down underneath, letting the shadows hide him until he was almost directly behind Clark.

It had barely been a few minutes since he had first introduced himself. With Batman's luck, he had used those few minutes to learn to be afraid. But... He took a deep breath, and held on tight to the hope.

"B--" no, not his real name. Not in this form; not for a long time. Not while he was still lingering back, half-hidden by the shadows with only his red, monstrous eyes that could be seen in the dark.

" **I'm the Batman, and you've trespassed my castle** ," his voice was low, roughened by vocal chords that should have never been in the body of a bat. " **You took my hospitality, and in return, you will stay here until I decide that you go.** "

No. He shouldn't be saying any of this--

" **I am the Lord of the castle, and you will obey me.** "

Clark had almost decided to give up. The trip back through the castle was going to be a lonely one, heading back toward his room, trying to keep the wary smile on his face. He would look for the owner of the castle there, try to implore him for his freedom, for the key to the gate. Part of him knew that he was imprisoned here, that something selfish and hungry wanted to keep him forever, but another part of him insisted that if whatever it was was sentient, that he could beg for his freedom.

He was just a poor farmer's son, already on the run from the mage Prince Lex Luthor, trying to avoid being captured and imprisoned because he was an adventurous soul. He didn't belong here, trapped behind high walls, and he would go mad imprisoned like this.

He was losing hope when he heard a sound behind him, and when he turned he was confronted by a vast man bat; a creature with clawed feet and bright red eyes, with a voice as rough and low as gravel.

For a few seconds, Clark's horror and fear crossed his expression. He stepped back once, twice, recoiling from the beast.

No. No, he couldn't be afraid. He mustn't back away. He had to beg for his freedom. So he swallowed down on his scream, forced himself to hold his ground, and then after a moment stepped forward again, even though he was shaking minutely.

"My Lord. You have been most generous--" His breath shook. It trembled. "--But I am afraid I cannot stay. I will not be your obedient prisoner." He lowered his head, even though good sense told him to keep his eyes on the bat. A monster like that, who knew what it might do? "I will pay you what I can for the kindness that you have shown me, but I am a poor man; a farmer's son. I have very little of my own to give."

There was one thing. Resentfully, sadly, Clark reached into his breast pocket and produced a pocket watch, holding it out toward the bat.

"Here, take it. It is all I have."

Every sign of fear that Clark showed crushed the hope within Batman. Shattered it into pieces sending it falling to the ground like little pieces of glass. And with every breath Batman took he felt like those broken hopes were cutting into his skin, slashing against his heart, causing him to bleed and bleed even though no blood welled in the invisible wounds.

He was a fool. Clark's eyes already condemned him for being a monster, and he had fulfilled that expectation with his demands. For a long moment, he could only stand still, frozen in his place with an expression of chasm-like regret, watching him take two steps back, listening to Clark's stuttering words. He took a breath, his chest heaving, and he knew that it would look even more ridiculous like this. Even more monstrous, the morning's light unforgiving as it shone down, delineating every single edge, every single detail of the monster.

Batman took a step back, then quickly a step forward. He refused to give in - he was the Lord here, the Prince even though the lands had long forgotten that they were once a monarchy. He looked at Clark for a long moment before his wing swept out, knocking the pocketwatch away hard enough for the thing to skid along the ground.

There was true injury more than fear in Clark's expression at that. He heard the sound of it slipping through grass, and then the plop as it fell into the pond. It was the only memento he had of his family, with a tiny engraving from his parents on the inside:

 _Dearest Clark, we will always be with you no matter what. Your loving parents, J &M Kent._

Batman had decided. If he was judged to be monstrous, then he would be. If he was judged to be nothing else, then so be it. If Clark feared him, there was nothing he would do to change that opinion. If Clark hated him, then all the better. He just needed to stay here; stay here and even though hope was entirely crushed, Batman could still watch him. Look at him and hope that when he wasn't there, Clark would smile. That even if he cowered in Batman's presence, Batman would do everything he could with the Manor to make him happy. But right now? He was a monster, wasn't he?

He was nothing more than a beast, impervious to injury of emotion; monstrous and wanting for nothing more than the blood from Clark's throat. So be it. Stepping forward, he loomed over Clark, his wings spreading out to encompass him entirely. The sun was blocked out like this, and he used his shadows to swallow him up.

" **You will stay here. It will not be a choice,** " and he grinned, a vicious, cruel expression. If he was to be a monster, then--

" **Or is there anyone from your village that you will sacrifice? A parent? A sibling? A friend? A _lover?_** "

Beneath that menace, Clark's eyes were only sad. They met the monster's quietly, unflinchingly as the dark wings swept around him. This wasn't right. This wasn't the hospitality of the castle, quietly begging him to stay, desperate and sad and lonely. It was monstrous. It was angry. But it wasn't right. Did he want to be hated? Clark didn't think so. The breath he took, the step back, the deliberate hardness of his words. It was an act, wasn't it?

Clark raised his chin, raised one hand and placed it on the beast's chest, where he thought that his heart should be.

"You know that I would never exchange my freedom for another's. I have no choice, because you do not choose to give me one. My Lord is cruel and bitter." He dropped his hand down. "And I am but a slave to his will, a prisoner in his house. But know this, my Lord: you cannot cage a blackbird and still expect it to sing."

Batman's heart skipped a beat - even in this monstrous form, despite the rumours of the people in the forest, he had a heart that beat - at the feel of Clark's hand against his chest. He looked at him with red eyes, fixing a glare on him, all feral light and viciousness, desperately trying to get him to back down, to move away.

 _My Lord is cruel and bitter._

And the Beauty was clever as well; clever and observant and fearless and kind.

Of course he was. He was; he had been since his youth, and it had only worsened as he grew, as he realized that there was none in the world who would be willing to love him while he looked like this. He needed this love, and without it, he would die, so someone should simply give it to him. He should be able to buy it, to force it. He was a Prince, after all, and it should come freely, for what was love but another commodity? That one mistake had cost him his kingdom, cost him everything he had except for a castle, a rose, and the eternal presence of Alfred.

He nearly snorted. He should have known that it was too perfect. Clark was far too perfect.

And he was stepping back, breaking the contact and turning around, huge wings folded at his back, leather-smooth. " **The blackbird will simply have to get used to his cage.** " He paused, and could not resist the overt kindness that laid beneath his own chest; in his heart. " **Your meals will be provided. Just be in the sitting room during meal times.** "

He hesitated.

" **There is a library, in the second floor. Do with it as you wish.** "

Clark, for all his fear, refused to back down. He wouldn't move away. After the first surprise he was fearless, defiant, and he knew inherently that like a spider in a bathtub the Batman was more afraid of him than he was of his monstrous form, his deep, growling voice.

He was almost prepared for things to end with the order, but then the monster added that he would be fed, that the library was open to him, and the draw of books - they did not have many on the farm - was such that it diverted him a little. He held his breath, expecting more, and when the monster only walked away he subsided, looking back up toward the castle - toward his prison - bleakly.

 

* * * * *

 

Weeks passed like that. Weeks, where he would go to meals on his own, read books in the library until his eyes hurt, look after Lois and then go to bed. Weeks in which the loneliness begun to sink in, weeks in which he longed to see someone, even if it was the Batman, so that he didn't have to be on his own any longer.

He explored the house as best he could; as best he could, because there were certain doors that couldn't be opened, certain places he couldn't go. He called for the beast several times, but it didn't appear. Over time, he only grew sadder, lonelier. He became homesick, and eventually he began to refuse to leave his room. Not to read, not to see Lois. He stared out the window at the land beyond the walls of the castle for hour after hour, missed mealtimes, slept with his head against the windowsill.

Like the blackbird in the cage, his spirit began to die.

And Batman watched it. He watched his spirit dimming, watched as Clark grew lonelier and lonelier; watched as he felt the aching emptiness that was also within Batman. It was a pain that he would never wish on his worst enemy, much less the boy that he had grown to love. He could only watch him as he wasted away while hiding in his own study, ignoring the calls of his own name. Watching as the rose in its jar start to fade; its petals falling and becoming ash.

He couldn't see him. Not after their first meeting; not after how Clark had recoiled from him. But keeping Clark here was killing him. He was starting to refuse to eat, and Batman watched him as he stared out to the place where he was forbidden to visit, and he made up his mind.

One night, as Clark still slept against the windowsill, Batman went to him. His wing stroked against the perfect cheek, feeling the flutter of his lashes- and somehow he managed to manoeuvre Clark up into his arms without waking him. The monstrous form had its uses, after all. He had enough strength to carry him down the stairs, past the front door, forcing it open even though Alfred tried to shut it to him.

Then, he placed Clark against a tree on the grounds, facing the gates. Lois - the horse - he led next to him, with her saddle on and chewing happily on an apple. Batman watched him as he slept, and he wanted - wanted so badly to reach out to touch, to kiss - but no human would want a monster's touch like this. Especially when they were defenceless; especially when they were vulnerable in sleep.

 

 

Batman forced the gates open, and started to walk away.

He would die, he knew that now. He would waste away in this castle, in his study, looking out to where Clark had gone. Perhaps one day he would find a way to release Alfred from his curse, so that he could be a man instead of a castle. Perhaps one day he would lose enough hope to go to Clark's room, to look out the window he once had gazed out upon, and snap the rose with his own hands.

It would be better; better than seeing the loneliness and sadness and pain in Clark's eyes. Better than keeping him here, selfishly, and causing him to die here, in a dark castle that should have never tried to imprison such brilliance.

Better.

After all, no one would miss a Prince long-forgotten.

 

\------

 

When Clark woke, sleepily, he almost didn't believe what he saw. The gates were open. A week before Christmas and the gates were open, and Clark slid onto Lois' back and urged her out into the forest without hesitation, without even a second thought for the castle or the beast behind him. He revelled in the feel of the wind in his hair and the sound of hoof beats beneath him. The trip home seemed shorter, with joy in his heart, but after Christmas, after the joy of the season had worn off and it was all bitter cold, he began to think of the beast, alone in his castle. He began to wonder what had become of him, and why he had let Clark go.

Home was lovely. The smell of cinnamon and spices filled the air. His mother's baking, the smell of wood on the fire, the sound of carols sung in the village. The cheer left an odd melancholy in Clark's heart; one that he had never felt at this time of year before. For all the hot wine he drank, he could never get warm, and he found himself sitting by the window more often than not, looking sadly out toward the land of Gotham.

His mother, always keen to the changes in him, noticed instantly of course. She touched his hair and sat beside him. His parents were the only ones who knew the entire story.

"You miss him, don't you? I shouldn't be saying this. The least I want is for you to go back there and end up trapped again. I love you too much. But I know that I can't stop you. This...is who you are, Clark. You help people. And you're never going to be happy until you know there's nothing wrong. Until you know that you did everything you could for him, monster or not. He showed you compassion, and you can't find it in yourself to fault him for that."

His father said "I love you, son. But you gotta do what you gotta do."

Stories of Clark's return reached the castle of Lex Luthor. The Prince sent out scouts to try to discover what had happened to Clark while he was gone, but all they could hear were snatches of a story. Of a secret. Something about a giant bat, and a magic castle, but nobody could find out any more. Not knowing frustrated Lex. This was his realm, after all, and he should know these things. They were his to know! There were no secrets that he didn't have the right to, as monarch.

So when Clark spotted Lex's pagaent of horses miles away from Smallville he knew that it was time to leave Metropolis. Time to travel back, and find out what had happened to the Batman. He set off into the January snow, treked around the great sea, leading Lois after him, and he found himself in the Batman's forest, deep in the black heart of Gotham, frightened by the sounds in the night.

The wolves were hungry. And they were coming for him.

So he ran.

 

* * * * *

 

For Batman, Christmas was already a melancholy time of the year. It had stopped having meaning to him even before he turned into a beast. When he was still human, it was a party for his people, to celebrate the birth of Christ with joy and love. For children to play in the snow and for the monarch to be seen at least once every year; for the poor to have food and warmth and light. It was a time for his people to come out from the cold, and for Batman to watch them even though the chill had settled into his heart a long time ago. Even though the chill would never leave, even now, when he was heartless.

His pride took so little time to break that he wondered why he had even bothered to try to fool himself. Batman left his own study for Clark's room after the first day of trying to keep away. He closed his eyes and tried to smell the sheets, trying to catch the elusive scent of sunshine and grass- but there was nothing there. Nothing except for his own bitterness.

He took up Clark's old post, sitting at the window and looking out, wondering if he could see Smallville if he really tried. In his hands he held the pocket-watch that Clark had left behind the first day, turning and turning the metal in his hand and trying to fool himself that he could feel Clark's warmth from the cold metal. The watch no longer showed the time; silt from the pond had filled up its insides, and the hands were frozen on that moment where Batman should have shown compassion--and hadn't.

Alfred was worried--of course he was. In the study, the rose was steadily dying, and Batman was feeling weaker and weaker as a result. It was harder to wake each morning, and even harder to want to. Clark was gone, taking Batman's heart with him, and he honestly doubted that there would be anyone else who would drop into the castle. Anyone who could love a monster.

He was a fool to believe otherwise in the beginning. To have hope.

Weeks passed, so much that Batman had stopped noticing the castle, the skies, the forest out at which he stared. He strained to catch a glimpse of Clark, to see if he was happy; but he was home, and he must be. At times he thought that he could see him, a spectre haunting Batman's steps, lingering outside the window, but then he would blink, and the ghosts would disappear again. Disappearing with the moon behind the clouds, his voice chased away by the howling of the wolves.

It was another night of ghosts, Batman knew. The song of the wolves in the forest, the lightless skies. Batman stared out emptily into the night, his wings folded around his body as if needing protection. And there, he could hear, preternaturally sharp, Clark's voice. Like a haunting, now he would say the words he had said that time; add to them the words Batman knew he had considered. About cruel lords and monsters, except--

Except Clark was crying for help.

Before Batman knew what he was doing, he was already dashing down the staircase. It was within the grounds of his castle, and the moment he had stepped past the front door he spread out his wings and took to the skies. The chill bit at him, bit at the skin drawn too tight over his bones, but Batman ignored it. Even if it was a hallucination, he had to be sure, and Clark's voice was getting nearer and nearer. He was shouting in fear, shouting for help, and he could hear, so near to the forest, the wolves' growls and barks and howls. They were closing in.

He landed close to Clark, right behind him just as a wolf leaped at him, and Batman smacked the wolf right in the head with the heavy shoulder of his wing. He stood at his full height, taller than the wolves, larger still as he spread out his wings and roared, inhuman and monstrous. He could hear Clark behind him, but he adamantly did not turn around, facing the wolves.

 

 

One of them darted in during his moment of distraction, and Batman couldn't help an anguished scream from tearing itself out of his throat when sharp teeth sank into his wing, ripping through flesh. He curled his leg, kicked out against the wolf's throat sharply, enough to make it release its grip, fighting past the pain to continue fighting, to shove the wolf down and break its neck.

The snap of bone echoed loudly in the air. The wolf laid still beneath his feet, Batman's blood staining its mouth. The other wolves stilled, looking at him, and Batman had a distinct feeling that he had murdered their alpha before they turned and fled, leaving deep footprints and blood and clumps of fur in the snow.

When the last of them had disappeared into the trees, Batman closed his eyes and let his knees do what they wished. They buckled, sending him down, crashing into the snow and the grass and the mud.

Throughout, Clark didn't know what was happening. There was a whoosh of wings and rushing air and the sound of an animal hitting...something, and then another whoosh, and a roar, inches away from his ears as he turned, like a monster calling out into the night, screaming murder at its enemies, its prey.

It was the Batman.

He turned just in time to see the wolf leap, teeth snatching deep into the wing; the scream that followed, and immediately the pain that the Batman felt leapt across his own face, stung his heart. He'd been injured fighting for Clark. Saving him. The wolf was killed only moments later, not living long enough to regret its mistake, and then the Batman crumpled to the ground beside the murdered creature; blood and fur and footprints in the snow, but more importantly--

More importantly they left behind the injured monster.

With a broken sob Clark threw himself forward, moving to Batman's side and throwing his arms around the monster's neck, forcing him up, out of the snow, pulling the huge, heavy bulk of the creature to the thundering of his heart and the warmth of his chest.

"No. No, please. You're okay. It's okay now, they've gone, and I'm here. I'm sorry that I left. Please--"

He raised his hand, brushing at the Batman's furred face. He was almost hysterical with worry, and though the wound was only superficial - the wing shredded and torn and useless, but not the same as his being stabbed through the heart, or bleeding through the neck - it worried Clark to see him fall the way he did. Somehow he was sure it must be too late.

"Let me help you. The castle isn't far. Let me help you inside. I'm sorry--I'm so sorry."

For a moment, Batman thought that he had died and was dreaming this; the warmth of Clark's arms around his own, the press of his body so close that he could hear his heartbeat, so quick that it could be the hoof beats of a thousand running horses. His wing was bleeding still, creating a pool of red amongst the white, and the pain was the only thing reminding him that he was still alive, and that this was real. That Clark's arms around him were real, that Clark was almost crying for him.

"Clark," he said, and his voice had changed. It was softer, gentler, though still far too deep and rough to be from a human's throat. "Clark," he said again, reaching up with his uninjured wing to smooth against his cheek. Just the softest, gentlest of gestures, like Clark was a particularly frightened little sparrow, and Batman didn't want to scare him away. He didn't know what caused the change of heart - what caused him to start crying like this - but he didn't like seeing it.

Clark's face wasn't made for such worry and sorrow, especially when it was for him.

Batman swallowed a little, forcing the pain away. It had been years since he had felt physical pain.

"I'm alright," he said, and felt like a fool for a moment for how archaic his wording sounded. "Okay. I mean, I'm okay, Clark. It's not your fault. I wanted you to leave, because if you hadn't gone-" He swallowed, and drew his wing across Clark's shoulder hesitantly.

"I didn't want you to waste away in the castle. Please don't apologize."

The boy's eyes were wide and wet, cheeks flushed from terror despite the cold of the snow around them. He was shivering, knelt in snow even though the wing was closed across his back and the beast was warm against his chest. He dropped his hand away from the Bat's cheek, warily, and looked up into his eyes.

They were red - still the red that he remembered - but there was something human about them that he hadn't been able to see before. His hand raised again, just a little higher, and smoothed underneath one of them, studying them curiously, before he realised where he was, and why, and the puzzlement dropped from his expression. He began to try and help the Batman back to his feet.

"Come on, let's get you inside."

He was too much weight for even a farm boy to support on his own, and unless the Batman tried to get up, there was nothing he could do, slipping and sliding on the snow as he was, to get them both upright and in to safety. The wolves would not be gone for long; they could smell blood, after all. And Lois was somewhere out in the woods alone. He hoped she had found her way to safety without them.

"Help me out here, will you?"

Batman hissed quietly, trying to not lean on Clark as he found his feet again. It was dizzying, trying to stand up while he was still bleeding freely from the wound. Dimly, he wondered if he would ever be able to fly again, and if he would regret this if he never could. If he could trade the single joy of this existence for Clark's life, would he? He smiled bitterly to himself, hiding it by ducking down his head.

Of course he would. He would, in a single second. He had, and if necessary, he would do it again.

"You don't have to," his words were quiet as he tried not to stumble. He was on his feet, standing, but his knees threatened to buckle at any moment and Clark's shoulders seemed a little too tempting to be leaning against. He had already imposed too much on this too-kind boy already, being so close when he was so hated.

But he couldn't help but hope, just for a second, that Clark no longer hated him. He touched him willingly, even though he recoiled back as soon as he noticed Batman's red eyes, but no, no, he couldn't stand anymore hope. He couldn't even think of it, because if Clark left again... He would not be able to stand it. To know the heat of this man beside him, to hold him close with his wing and yet not be able to see him, to be able to--it was a cruelty farther than anything the witch could have done.

He closed his eyes, turned his head slightly away and hardened his voice once more.

" **I can return to the castle myself. You need to find your horse, and find your way back to your usual path.** " For what other reason would Clark venture here, after all? He had already left once; made himself clear. " **I should not delay you, the woods will only be more dangerous now that the wolves have tasted blood tonight.** "

Clark shook his head. "No, look--" He pointed into the dirt. "The hoof prints lead this way anyway, and I'm not leaving you. Not again." He raised his eyes to the monster's again, and forged on toward the castle, made himself put one foot in front of the other even though it seemed he had to half drag the Batman along with him.

He glanced over his shoulder to shoot him with a piercing glare.

"I came back for _you_."

The mud and the snow was freezing onto Batman's fur and his clothes by the time they reached the castle gates, and Clark was already beginning to shiver, moving into the beast's embrace to keep himself warm. Each breath was a gust of steam. Each step was made like clockwork, and the lights of the castle shone ahead.

Alfred knew he was coming.

He looked up at the beast again, all softness and hope in his eyes, steady even though the rest of him shook and shivered.

"We're almost home."

 _Home._

Batman's eyes widened at that, and he almost stumbled. It wasn't Clark's admission that he had came back for him that mattered, it was that he referred to the Manor as home. That he was bringing Batman home, a home that belonged to the both of them. That he had left his village - the village he had missed so much that he was pining over it - to come here. To come back _home._

And he knew that the word could have been just a slip. He knew that it might just be that Clark meant Batman's home. But he hoped, nonetheless. Hoped with a sudden lump in his throat that this meant that Clark would be staying. Just _staying_ here, where Batman would be able to watch him. And if he was courageous enough, he would be able to talk to him. Touch him. Like he had wanted to every single day the last time Clark was here.

The gates swung forward for them, and locked themselves securely after they had passed through them. Batman knew that was necessary, because he was leaving a trail of blood in the snow for the wolves to follow. His head was getting a little dizzy with the blood loss, but he pressed on, nonetheless, gritting his teeth because... _because Clark was here._

He had no more reason to wilt beside the window waiting for the flower to lose all of its petals.

The heavy gates closed as though to say ' _If you came back it had better be to stay; you won't break his heart again,_ ' but Clark paid them no heed, helping the Batman down the corridor. Not knowing the way to his room, he instead head for the room which had been given to him when he was kept here before, knowing that there was a bed there where Batman could be laid down off his injured wing, and left to rest.

Despite Batman's hope and the feel of Clark's warmth against him, it took him until they stepped into the Manor proper, the doors slamming shut behind them, before he could speak.

"Why?" his voice was low. Not accusing, but simply quiet. "Why did you come back?"

"Because I don't give up on anyone."

A simple reply, but said with the not-quite-honesty that had him quickly glancing away. It was true, of course, but there was simply more to it than that.

The door opened in front of him, and Clark was reminded of the magic of this place again; he'd taken it for granted before - after all Lex Luthor was a world renowned mage - but this was a different kind of magic. It was wholesome and sentient; welcoming. It felt like a touch on the back of his hand as he lowered the Batman past the drapes and onto the heavy silk coverlet, splashing the ivory white with his blood.

"Because I looked into your eyes and saw compassion, that first day. And because..." A swallow. "Because I know how it feels to be lonely. When I sat at that window I wasn't just wishing to go home. I would have done anything for someone - or something - to talk to."

Batman hissed quietly as he was laid on the bed, laying the wing on the coverlet and knowing that it would be entirely ruined by the blood. But Alfred's magic worked on the clothes here, and his attention was dragged away from the sight of red on white by Clark's words, and he looked at him for a long moment. To know that Clark had wanted someone - anyone - to talk to, even if it was him... to know that it was his own cowardice that had ruined his first chance, that he had hidden himself away and watched this man (not a boy, not with the kind of look in his eyes) when he could have spoken to him, and that if he had, then Clark wouldn't have left. That if he had, Clark wouldn't have gotten himself into danger in the forest; wouldn't have been so close to the wolf's jaws that Batman's heart had taken permanent residence at the base of his throat.

It was his own cowardice that caused his injury. Batman closed his eyes, and swore to himself that he wouldn't be so foolish again. Clark's return was a boon that he didn't deserve, a second chance for his life that he shouldn't have gotten--and he _knew_ it.

It didn't even matter that Clark was insinuating that he was a 'something' rather than a 'someone'. It had been too long since he had thought of himself as human; too long since he remembered that this monstrous form could have been anything else. He was a monster, nothing better than a thing.

He sat up a little, pulling his wing close even as he tried to shift a little closer to Clark. He wished, frustrated, that he had fingers - he had managed to carry Clark out that one time, but that was a combination of brute strength and the curves of his wings. He wished he could reach out and trace those high cheekbones with his fingertips.

A breath.

"You won't be, this time," he said, and his voice was quiet, his eyes determined. "I won't let you be alone. Even if... If you didn't want to talk to me, I--" He shook his head, and turned away. "If you like, you can invite your family here. To stay in the castle."

Clark smiled, and he reached up to brush the tips of his fingers against the creature's furred face, gliding the tips of them back across one pointed ear. He was much less severe in the warm light of the fire than he had ever been before, and injured, his words soft, he was by no means the terrifying monster that Clark remembered from his previous stay, the one that had insisted that he could never leave; that it was not benevolence or kindness but selfishness that had kept him shelter from the storm before.

He dropped his hand away, but the smile didn't fade.

"My family are happy where they are; back on the farm, raising our cattle. They don't belong here." Neither did he, but that was another matter entirely. Gotham was no more his home than the capital of Metropolis, where Lex would gather him away if he could.

No, he couldn't think of the monster as a thing any more. There was something vulnerable about him; something human. He rose up off the bed and wrapped his arms around himself. Despite the fire he was cold, and he'd need to get out of these cold clothes.

"I'm going to find something to change into, and check the stables in case Lois came home. You get some rest, okay?"

When Clark moved to leave the room, Batman reached out, his wing brushing against his leg gently. Only gently, because he realized what he was about to do mid-way and tried to pull himself back--but it was already too late, and he had touched Clark.

He swallowed, and wondered if his current face was capable of showing nervousness. He felt foolish for even thinking such a thing, and took a long, slow breath in before he spoke.

"Clark-" he said, and turned his head away, looking out of the window sightlessly. He wished he hadn't spoke. It was too late now. "I--thank you," the words came out in a rush. "Thank you, for...coming back."

The touch, however fleeting, had happened, and Clark smiled brightly as he turned, looked back at the Batman where he lay. The nervousness couldn't be conveyed through his expression, but the position he lay in, the way he looked away, the speed of his words, they told Clark everything that he needed to know.

"You don't have to thank me. Not for that."

He stepped back over, and touched the beast's furry shoulder; it's wing.

"Just promise to be honest with me from now on. I'm like a nightingale. I can't sing in a cage. But if I'm free, there's a chance that I might come to your windowsill to sing you a lullaby each night. You...understand, don't you? You have a second chance. Everyone deserves one."

He left the beast with that sentiment, heading down to the stables. Lois was waiting, happily munching from a barrel of apples in her stall, and Clark laughed once, untacked her and closed the stall door. He smelt like wet horse by the time he came back inside, and was no more warmer for that, but there were clothes waiting for him in the study, courtesy of Alfred, and he changed before heading back to the bedroom to look for his host.

Back in his room, the Batman lost himself in his thoughts, let Clark's words go back and forth through his mind as he drank in every possible meaning, burned them into his memory.

 _I can't sing in a cage._

Was that what he had tried to do to Clark? To cage him, to hold him here? Of course it was, and why hadn't he seen it? He had been so caught up in his own selfishness, in his own misery. He had wanted to watch Clark, so eager to reassure himself of his presence and to make sure he wasn't alone that he was basically killing the man whom he--

Loved?

Batman's eyes widened slightly, his wing held close to himself, relishing in the heat of Clark's touch. How pathetic was he, that he had to rely on something so brief, so insubstantial? No, it couldn't be love. It could not, simply because Clark might be kind, but at the most his affection for Batman would be akin to a child's for an injured bird, or a kind man for a dog with a broken leg.

No. He only _wanted_ Clark, that was all. _That was all._

He closed his eyes, banishing those thoughts. When he opened them again, medical supplies were waiting for him, packed in their usual crates and boxes. Alfred's work. Batman smiled a little, inclining his head in thanks at the nearest wall before he started to nurse himself. He had gotten proficient at doing so. After a while, the loneliness and isolation would get to him, and he would start screaming into the silence, and clawing at himself to find some sort of relief from the endless emptiness.

Now Clark was here, he didn't need to do so anymore.

When Clark returned, Batman had moved from the bed to the chair by the window, looking outwards. The sheets were pristine again, and his wing was splinted and bandaged. He turned at Clark's entrance, and nodded towards him.

"How is - your horse?"

"Lois? She's fine now. I think she knew that this was the safest place."

Who had splinted his wing, Clark wondered? Had he done that himself, while he'd been gone? Or had the castle somehow... _Magic_ , right. Quietly he came over, sitting down on the windowsill and looking out into the dark, icy grounds. The moonlight could barely cut through the blizzard now, but where it did it turned the snow silvery blue. Outside the walls, the wolves prowled, nursing their wounds, and a lonely, miserable howl went up into the darkness. One of their kind was, after all, dead.

"How are you feeling?" The fire was roaring in the grate. "Any better?"

One hand brushed a furred shoulder, almost reassuringly, though he was in fact testing his temperature. What was normal for a giant bat, he wondered? And he was a bat; now that he saw him properly, the light from the fire, the angles of his face, he could see that it was a bat and not a monster. A creature of the night; terrifying, maybe, but there had been bats that lived in the rafters of their home, and Clark was used to them. He wasn't frightened by the grotesque visage; not now that he knew that there was a heart, a soul behind it.

What did appearances matter?

It was still strange to have Clark approach him with no fear in his eyes, no disgust- it was so different from the look in Batman's own eyes when he had seen himself for the first time. For Clark to not judge him like this- for him to accept his appearance and to see beyond it to realise that there might just be a man trapped inside...

Or did he just think of Batman as some kind monster? Kind, but monstrous, nonetheless. Worthy of his gentle kindness, which he no doubt showed everyone, but not love. That should be better, Batman thought, though he hated thinking of it. Not because he would die, no. But if Clark actually started to like him, to think of him as a gentle monster, then he would mourn when Batman died. He knew that he should, for Clark's good, start pulling away, start treating him cruelly again. But he couldn't; not when those beloved eyes were looking at him like this--softly, with the hope of love.

"It'll heal," he rasped, then tugged at Clark, gently.

"You should sleep. Tomorrow--" he hesitated for a moment, uncertain where the sudden idea had came from. But there was no harm, right?

"I'll take you around the grounds, tomorrow. There is so much more to see."

So Clark wouldn't be bored and trapped in the castle.

* * * * *

Tomorrow. That was the promise that the beast - and it did feel strange to call him that--even Batman didn't seem like a name - had made him. Tomorrow. Clark had seen him once by daylight before. Today he would be ready for it, and though he didn't sleep particularly well with the howling of the wolves and the wind, when he woke he felt well rested.

The castle was still. Outside snow lay on the ground, covering even the tracks and the blood from the night before. The trees were dressed in their silvery winter best, and the gardens looked as pristine and well managed within the walls as Clark remembered them being before. Lois was already out, her tracks in the snow the only sign of life. She was rolling in it and pawing for grass, looking for all the world more alive for having survived the wolves than the night before. Maybe it was the apples that grew here.

Dressing in the clothes that had appeared for him, Clark went down for a quiet breakfast, wondering where his host was, then wandered out into the gardens to explore, burying his nose in the thick fur muffler wrapped around his neck.

The roses, lined with snow, were beautiful. It was late for roses now--two months or so late, but these were in full bloom, just as the apple trees were still laden with fruit. The un-seasonality was part of the beauty of this place--part of the magic.

Perhaps that was why he had come back, after all. The adventure. There was still so much to learn, unlike the sleepiness of Smallville, which had revealed all its answers to him so long ago.

It was foolish of Batman to not sleep when Clark had, but after he had left, Batman had disappeared into his study, not even bothering to light the fire before he was closing his eyes again, calling to the castle's magics to let him see Clark. He had watched him for what seemed like minutes but was most likely many hours, entranced by the simplistic beauty of dark sooty lashes against pale skin; of the rise and fall of his chest; of the sweet little smile curving against his soft - he could only imagine they were soft - lips.

By the time Batman had torn himself away from the sight, night had long fallen and his study was as cold as the stones that covered the rooftops. Alfred had drawn a fire, but that was barely enough to keep away the cold. He drew his wings around him, and slept uneasily, waking with the dawn and feeling ridiculous that a monster could be ill.

It didn't matter.

He sat in his room again, watching through the castle walls as Clark went about his morning. It warmed him far more than the bare embers of a fire left behind, and Batman ignored the food Alfred laid out for him to instead sweep down the stairs two turns of the second hand after Clark had, his claws tapping a cacophony on the wooden steps.

Reaching out, he picked an apple, coloured red and gold just like the one that Clark had offered him on his first night, and let the snow collect on its tip, spilling over. The ice was freezing against his claws, but he didn't notice, blowing heat upon the snow until it melted. He left it to the mercies of the rippling winds, and the ice froze over again instantly without the warmth of his breath, clear and shining around the apple. A shell of glass.

Holding it, Batman finally let himself step out from behind the trees.

"Clark," his voice was soft, echoing around the orchard. The apple dangled in front of him.

An invitation. A gift.

The thought of humming - of maybe singing to himself - had barely touched on Clark's mind when the Batman had appeared, breaking him out of his reverie, a dangling apple hanging from his clawed wing. It seemed to glow, a glossy reflection that had Clark reaching out to take it, but it was frozen, and the chill ice bit into his fingertips so that he had to juggle it back onto his sleeves to keep from being burned.

"Thank you. It's--"

He smiled.

"Cold. It's very cold. But maybe we can pick a few more, and I can cook up my mother's world famous Kent Apple Pie. My mum's recipe. You know--" He was about to regail him with a story of Ma Kent winning an apple pie contest at the Smallville fete when he realised how silly it sounded. Batman didn't know his family, or anything about Smallville.

"How did you sleep?"

Batman barely heard the question. It was foolish of him. He should have realised that Clark would be cold, holding the apple. For a moment, Batman started forward, as if to snatch it back- then reconsidered after a long moment, a foot hovering half in the air and a wing outstretched towards him. He wasn't even paying attention to the question.

Then, slowly, he placed his foot down, careful to not disturb the snow more than usual and make Clark look at it. More than anything he didn't want to have his mistake acknowledged. He blinked a little, then refocused. Right, what was it that Clark had asked?

"Fine." He shook his head, then reached out, pulling out one of the incongruously huge leaves from a tree. He folded it into two, and finally he plucked the ice apple from Clark's hand, placing it on the leaf before holding it out to him. Then--

"Tell me," he said, looking away. "About Smallville. Your parents."

Clark only beamed, taking the apple carefully back when the Batman offered it to him. He lifted it high and took a good look, turning it on his fingertips. It really was beautiful. The gold was almost metallic, and it shone like polished jewellery. The red was ruby, like the stones in Smallville--the ones that had fallen from the sky, and were said to be magic but bizarrely just made Clark feel sick.

"It's beautiful. It's a little farming village--a few hundred people. We provide all the corn for the land of Metropolis, but my family keep cows, too. It's hard work."

And it would make sense that he stayed there, that he helped them, if not for the fact that Luthor was breathing down his neck. Instead they would retire, sell almost everything and live on it for the rest of their days. For Clark, who had always craved something away from the farm, it sadly made sense. This castle, the magic of it all, the Batman. Could this be what he was looking for? It seemed crazy.

No, the whole thing was crazy.

Clark smiled and stepped forward, the apple in one hand, moving to brush his fingertips against the edge of the uninjured wing.

"My parents are good people, and they love me very much. I'm their only child, but they... _found me_. They couldn't have any children of their own, and one day there I was in a cornfield."

The smile on Clark's lips when he spoke about his family sent a spike of jealousy through Batman's heart, and he almost stepped back, jerking his wing away so Clark wouldn't be touching it—touching _him_. It was a foolish, childish impulse, but there was a sharp pain within himself, and he wondered, bitterly, why it couldn't be him that brought such a smile to Clark's lips. Why must it be something that he could not have, something that he had left behind to come here, that made him smile that way?

But he was here. He had chosen this lonely castle, staying with nothing but a monster, and Batman once again wondered why he had returned. The sun did not deserve to be hidden within the dark shadows of the castle, and yet that was what Clark had chosen, and Batman was far, far too selfish to send him back, now that he had him. He had sent him back once, and it was already too much. Only a fool sent a treasure back once. So what would he be, if he sent him back twice?

Batman shook his head a little, dislodging those thoughts, and took a low breath.

"Where did they find you?" He didn't ask- why did they keep you? Why did they let you stay? The answer seemed obvious enough.

"It was the back field." Clark answered, thoughtfully. He was recanting a story he didn't know, something he'd been told rather than something he remembered. "Land we never really used, actually, but back then times were pretty hard and dad had to make use of as much of it as possible, even though there was just him. So he'd planted corn out there, and then stars rained down from the sky. Well, he had to go see how bad the damage was, right? And there I was, just sitting there crying.

"The crop was pretty much ruined - only enough to feed the cows, not to sell - but they had me, so it didn't matter any more. They used to joke that I'd fallen right out of heaven and into their hearts, but people don't just fall out of the sky."

Clark laughed, easily, and shook his hair out of his face, stepping away into the snow.

"Come on. Let's find something to collect the apples in."

With the brightest smile, Clark turned again and led the way through the orchard, heading for one of the small outbuildings where things were stacked up under piles of snow. There had to be something there; a pail or a bushel.

The smile was like the sun, warming Batman up from the inside, and he ducked his head suddenly, ashamed and embarrassed at how easily this man could move him with just the smallest curve of the lips. He wanted to reach out, touch him, and feel that smile and that warmth against his too-ugly skin. But... Batman only nodded, walking towards the outbuilding that he vaguely remembered as containing supplies.

Part of his mind was already running through what Clark had said. It would be foolish to think that he was truly an angel, fallen from the skies- but the stars had fallen, and there he was.

His voice was soft, musing and almost melancholic, as if he wasn't even aware that he was speaking: "It's as if you were an angel fallen from the stars, but angels do not grow up, do they?"

Then, as if he was suddenly aware of what he had said, Batman ducked his head still further, averted his eyes and turned away. He kept the rest of his words hidden inside, embarrassed once more, ashamed once more.

 _You're as beautiful as one._

Clark looked a little bit surprised by the words, and had to restrain himself from laughing because the Batman looked so humiliated even by the few he'd let loose. It was sweet. A little cliché, maybe, but sweet none the less, and he stepped forward and let his hand settle between the creatures folded wings, against his back.

"If I were an angel, then we would be able to fly together, wouldn't we? I think I'd love to be able to fly. To feel the wind in my face." He stepped past him, reaching forward to brush snow away from one of the piles, and pulling a slightly old, ravaged looking wicker basket from underneath it. It was weather torn but whole, and it'd do just fine for carrying apples in.

Clark straightened back up, holding it proudly.

"When your wing heals you have to tell me all about it. About what it feels like to fly. To be able to look down on the world below you and know that you're a part of it, even if you're miles away."

To fly... Batman looked at him for a moment, at the tableau of this strange, special man holding up an old basket as if it was a treasure, more comfortable with it than the various beautifully-made, antique and precious cutlery that he ate his food with every day. For a moment, Batman had a glimpse of what Clark looked like at home; of what a vision he must be every day in Smallville, dressed in his common work clothes.

And he wondered: why had an entire town let a man like this go? Why had he not been chased, precious like a jewel, unto the edge of the Earth? Why was it that a beast as ugly as Batman was the only thing that seemed to see his beauty?

Or was it only his vanity that assumed that no one saw Clark as he was? Perhaps it was simply that he wanted to believe that no one did, for if they saw Clark and wanted him, then what could Batman offer except a cold castle and an ugly face? He had nothing to win Clark with, not even gentle words and charms, for Batman might be a Prince, but he had never tried to woo anyone.

Much less a man. Much less someone like him.

He took a breath, and worked at his wing a little. Batman lifted his head, then shifted his eyes away. The red of his eyes was unnatural and he did not want Clark to see it. Still, it was strange--for him to have taken so long to grow truly humiliated by his own looks.

"I'll take you flying," he said, and his voice was soft, half-hopeful. "When my wing is healed, I will take you over the forests. The skies look different, when you are so close to them."

* * * * *

Take him flying he did.

The wing took three weeks to heal; long enough for the last of the snow to melt away and an early spring to grip the garden. Things did not stay frozen and cold within the walls with Clark there, even though outside the deep snow was still treacherous and thick, and would be for many months still. They had spent those three weeks getting to know each other all the better, the Batman opening up to Clark more with each passing day, and Clark learning to love the beast despite his frightening appearance. He was human beneath the fur and red eyes, with human fears and human desires.

The speed of the healing Clark accounted to the magic of the castle, though he had caught Batman caring for his wounds one day and marvelled that he was doing all the dressing and bandaging himself. Sure enough, three weeks later he was able to fly again, even carry Clark's weight, and the promise that he'd given came true.

They soared high above the world below in the cold January sky. Clark was warm enough, clinging to the Bat's waist as they flew, marvelling at the sights below him. Gotham was a beautiful kingdom, with high mountains and the sparkling city of Arkham not far from the Manor in which they lived. There were villages that he had never seen before, and away in the distance he could see his country--Metropolis.

"It's beautiful. You really... You really meant it. It seems like the sky is all around us. Like we're a part of it!"

The joy on Clark's face was a precious sight to behold, and Batman could only hold onto him tightly as he flew over the trees. The harsh bite of winter was over, and even this high up, the air was still warm- and he couldn't help but think it strange, that it was cold all the way up to the skies. The clouds were frost itself, even though they were so near the sun - there was a reason there that Batman did not understand, and he wished he could keep his wings and his humanity both, to bring the great philosophers here to study the sky.

But in the meantime, there was Clark. There was Gotham, dark in her beauty, her stone bricks gleaming dark in the sunlight - it was mainly made of gilded, dark volcanic rock. At Clark's joy, however, Batman swerved, turning towards Metropolis. Towards the city of Luthor, with its shining limestone castles and buildings, the direct contrast to Gotham's grey stone and the physical manifestation of its rulers' greed and want. The highest tower- the castle of the Luthors, shone high up, nearly reaching the skies.

And at the base of the tower- a group. A mob, with flashing torches. Batman's wings angled suddenly without his conscious wish, swooping downwards and moving towards one of the large, heavily-leafed trees.

"There," he whispered to Clark, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read the leader of the mob's lips. All he could see of him was the shining crown of his bald head, and Batman cocked his head to the side, ears flicking forward and back even as he ducked down further, out of sight.

"What is happening, over there?"

For reasons that Clark couldn't begin to know, he could hear them. It had always seemed normal, never extraordinary to him, that he could hear people at a distance, and now was no different. The sound of Lex's voice was gruff and angry. He was baiting the crowd, encouraging them to roar and lift their pitchforks higher.

"The beast has taken one of our own,” Lex was saying, “And as Lord of Metropolis I am duty bound to raise an army to slay it. This creature--it devours your young! It's coming for you and everything you own! It doesn't belong here! Who of you will be brave enough to join me? Who will come with me to vanquish this beast, who preys on your livestock and your children? This winged bat, this foul monstrosity?"

The crowd roared again and raised their weapons higher, and Lex - helped onto his white horse by his men - strode out in front of the crowd and kicked the magnificent animal, a creature Clark knew to be called Bucephalus, into a rear. He swung his sword around and turned the raging mob toward Gotham.

"We have to go," Clark, tugging desperately on Batman's arm, looked urgently away. "We have to go now."

Batman looked at him for a long moment. For some reason, he thought that Clark could hear them, even this far away; even this far up. There was fear in those brilliant blue eyes, and that made the decision for him very quickly. He nodded sharply.

"Hold tight."

They took to the air again at great speed, careful to remain over the clouds, letting the white fluffy things hide them. Well, not as white as fluffy as they should be - a storm was coming, and it was almost appropriate. There was fear in Clark's eyes; fear for that man, for his purpose as he rode off. For his direction, coming towards them - even though Batman could hear nothing, the soft rumbling of far-off thunder sounded remarkably like hooves.

He landed near the gates, his wings folding beside him as he let Clark find his feet again. Then he looked at Clark, aware of how monstrous he looked in the fading light of the day.

"What did you hear?"

Clark found his feet rather well for someone who wasn't used to flying, instantly raising his head up to look around. The clouds flashed. A few seconds, and the rumble would come crashing down around them, so he spoke fast, wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm as the wind rose and ripped around them.

"They're coming,” Clark’s breath was short, his words hesitant. “They're coming here."

The rumble followed, loud, drowning out their heavy breaths, and Clark reached out for Batman on instinct, took hold of the edge of his wing and pulled gently, pulled him toward the castle.

"Please. Let's get inside. Lock the doors, put out all the lights. Maybe if it doesn't look like there's someone here they'll leave us alone."

It was pointless. Hopeless. Luthor was a determined man, and he had been stung by Clark's flight. He had come here to take him back, and exact revenge on the beast that had harboured him; there was no doubt.

The words resonated in Batman's head even as he began to move, nudging Clark and nearly shoving him in through the gates. They closed behind him immediately, the locks falling into place behind them. So Alfred had heard as well. Red eyes narrowed, and he threw a gaze backwards.

He had been expecting this for a long time. Long before Clark had ever brightened his doorstep. He had lived in fear for the first few weeks of this beastly existence, waiting for the people of Gotham to find out about how far their Prince had fallen; to call him a demon and to rush at him with pitchforks and knives and torches, ready to kill him to eradicate from their world a so called 'monster'.

But they hadn't. They hadn't, and now it was Metropolis that was coming for him. Metropolis' Luthors, who had an eye on Clark--Batman's exhale sounded remarkably tight and dangerous, a low, sharp hiss. He would not crawl away with his tail between his legs. He would not turn away. These were not the people he had betrayed; these were people coming to steal the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

No.

"I refuse," he said quietly, then tipped his head up, pride in every line of his body as he looked at Clark. His voice dipped, roughened. "I will not."

He turned around, facing the gates. "Get inside and stay safe, Clark. But they will have to get through me before they can think of claiming you."

His answer was not unexpected, and it didn't go without effort on Clark's behalf to change it, either.

"No," Clark whispered, reaching for Batman's wing, pulling himself closer again. He refused to be pushed away, refused to be protected like this; like some helpless maiden. "This isn't like the wolves. They'll kill you."

Desperation and horrible pain shone in his blue eyes. He didn't want to watch this noble bat reduced to beast. They'd kill him and make Clark watch, make him walk back to Metropolis beside Luthor's horse, a pageant boy with the Batman's head on a pike walking ahead of them. His eyes would be lidded and sightless, never again to live, never again to shine with the love that Clark occasionally saw in them; the love that he knew was in Batman's heart. Batman knew that Clark's love would die then too, that he would become an empty shell with nothing to live for, his heart broken by grief. It was what he had been trying to avoid.

Clark tightened his grip, fighting the very nature of similar images that no doubt assaulted his mind.

"How can I go inside and stay safe when I know you're out here doing precisely the opposite. Do you think I want to see them kill you? My safety means nothing if it comes at the price of your life." Earnest, desperate, Clark pulled again. "Come back to the house with me. Help me barricade the doors."

"They won't leave even if we do," the Bat's voice was a low murmur, but the determination was clear. It was a hard voice, deepened and roughened until it was barely recognisable as human, words torn apart and placed back together haphazardly, all the edges shown proudly. Like a wolf baring his teeth even before the hunters arrived, simply because he could hear their footsteps.

Even if it was hoof beats in this case.

Batman turned his head, and looked out of the closed and locked gates. "I have been expecting this for a long time."

He turned around and looked at Clark, red eyes sharp beneath the blackness of the coming storm. Reaching out with a wing, he let the edge trace against Clark's cheekbones, almost stroking against him. His cheek was so incredibly smooth, like a child's- and Batman suddenly swept out his other wing, shielding Clark from sight while at the same time nudging him back towards the castle.

"Your safety is everything," he said almost brusquely. Batman could now _definitely_ hear the stampeding hoof beats coming closer and closer, trampling on the forest trees and shoots and bushes. The animals were shouting and shrieking and squeaking in rage as they dove away from the horses' feet, from the shouting men raising their pitchforks.

"Go. The house will protect you."

* * * * *

The hard voice, the order, the thick darkness and pride and disgust of monster and man - man? - was there a man beneath that fur, those red eyes? Yes, Clark was more certain of it when the wing brushed his cheek, all that strength withheld and replaced with gentleness.

He couldn't stay and fight, not without...

An idea flickered across Clark's mind and he let himself be brushed back, stumbled once, then whirled, shouting over his shoulder as he ran. "I'm coming back! Don't die!"

He ran as though his life depended on it. Back into the house, up the stairs, his heart pounding. He had seen, somewhere, a suit of armour--there! Clark dressed as quickly as he could, his heart pounding. Leather pulled tight around trembling muscles, chain mail pulled over his head, gauntlets dragged onto his arms, sword tied to his back. He was heading back down to the stables when the house led him aside, showed him an open casket full of more armour; this time a chanfron and breastplate for a horse, the shield of an ancient family marked on it. A vast, black bat on a yellow field. The Waynes, he recognised. How...

How had he missed it? All this time in this house, and he had managed not to notice the details, the little bat motifs worked into the decoration, the draped portrait in the main hall that he had never thought to look behind. And on the gates, wrapped in ivy and rusted almost black--the same bat. He had been living in the lost Wayne Manor all this time without ever realising it.

Who, then, was the bat? A guardian of this place, or... No, it was too ludicrous to imagine.

Outside, Lex Luthor and his horde bore down on the gates. They tore them off their hinges with a vast tree trunk, driving their way through into the grounds beyond with the young prince at their head, his horse rearing, steel hooves flashing like death's blades in the sunlight.

Clark rushed for the stables as fast he could, barely feeling the weight of the armour on his back. Batman needed him.

 

* * * * *

 

Outside- outside, Lex Luthor seemed to have picked up even more people along the way, dragging them along through their fear of a monster, stirring them up with rolling threats that the big Bat would steal their children and eat them if they did not kill it. Batman knew better than to stand there - pride or not, he had his intelligence. Not enough to not land himself in this state in the first place, but enough.

He had not looked back when Clark had ran towards the Manor - Clark should be safe in there. Batman would rather let himself be killed by a bunch of ignorant, panicking peasants led by a tyrant-prince than let _Clark_ be killed. No, instead Batman had taken to the air, letting himself glide against the rushing winds to land on top of roof.

When Luthor and his army burst through the old, ornate gates of his Manor, Batman saw red. His eyes glowed, inhuman and monstrous, and he spread his wings wide around himself. At the same time, he swooped downwards, roaring an animalistic howl- and the mob started screaming immediately, pointing at him and fumbling at their makeshift weapons. Batman had expected that- and he had expected Luthor's aimed gunshot, and immediately ducked behind the trees.

He took a single breath.

 **"LEAVE."**

The word resounded around them, the air screaming as his voice cut through it. The winds and the branches started to shake, leaves falling from the tree that he had situated himself on. The entire manor was silent, the mob staring in fixed horror and fear as the roaring and monstrously loud voice echoed around them again and again, each repetition beating on their temporary bravery.

 **"YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. LEAVE, NOW."**

The gates slammed open, iron clashing against stone. The hinges screamed at the strain, metal protesting the treatment. Luthor's horse started rearing backwards, hooves kicking up in the air in its terror, trying to buck of its rider.

To the mobs below, Batman was nothing more than a monster with red eyes, glowing in the sinking darkness. Lex Luthor, however, was not about to be conquered by a flying beast, nor even by the attempts of his horse to fight loose of him and run as it wanted to. He drove his heels into Bucephalus's sides, and forced the horse forward, driving the stallion forward toward the shadow, rather than away from it.

"Kill the beast!” Lex rallied. “Throw stones, light your arrows. Are you going to let this creature rule your hearts with fear?"

Clark would be inside, the mage prince knew, locked away in a prison vault or a high tower. He would have to kill the bat before he could 'rescue' him, even if the rumours he heard were that the boy was not a prisoner at all; no, he would never believe it. And if it were true, then he would take Clark back to Metropolis and lock him up in his own palace--for his own good, naturally.

Luthor drove his horse forward, toward the trees, toward the monster. It reared again, hooves flashing, trying in earnest to unseat him again, but Lex stayed fast, drove his spurs in once more.

"Come down and face me like a man, beast! Face me and die, as the abomination that you are!"

The hypocrisy in Luthor's words made Batman snort, and he didn't even bother moving from his perch. The mob surrounding Luthor seemed to get braver, reaching down to pick up rocks and stones to try to aim at him. But the wind was picking up, its howling like the cries of a thousand angry wolves rushing around their legs. The sun had already set, and the moon was far too bright and cold, casting silver on his black fur.

One man threw a stone, and Batman didn't move. It nearly reached him before it was whipped away, smacking against a wall of the castle. The thud of the impact resounded around them, like a death sentence.

Alfred's work.

" **You call me a monster, and yet you expect me to face you like a man?** " his voice rumbled, just loud enough to be heard above the howling winds, like the growl of a crouched black dog in a dark, silent room. Batman tipped his head back, such that his red eyes glowed in the cold moonlight.

" **You don't deserve a man's respect. Only that of prey.** "

Then, he unfolded his wings and swooped, aiming to snatch Luthor off his horse and throw him down to the ground.

Lex might have laughed; he did not, because just for a moment, faced with the sweeping black monster, fear leapt into his throat. Gotham was not his home; it was unfamiliar and alien, and it terrified him. He leapt aside and from his saddle barely in time, rolling back to his feet as his horse whirled and screamed, kicking and kicking in frenzied panic as it galloped away.

Barely scratched from the descent, Luthor drew his sword and whirled on the beast, slashing out at the creature's wings, snarling in frustration.

"You would keep him all to yourself; _my_ Traveller. But you should know that I do not take kindly to those monstrosities that touch what does not belong to them."

Again Lex attacked, slashing out at the creature, sword flashing silvered death, murder in his eyes.

Batman growled almost on automatic, throwing himself backwards. The sword didn't even graze him. My Traveller; Clark. This was who they were fighting about - Lex might believe that he was here to rescue him, while Batman knew that he was fighting to save him. After all, if Clark had wanted to leave, he would have been gone a long time ago. He was here because he wanted to be. He was here because there was nowhere he would rather be. This Batman believed.

(There were niggling doubts, but- he was not such a fool or so arrogant to believe that he knew Clark's feelings better than his own. He had been proven wrong before, and he would never prefer to be right than to have Clark with him.)

And he knew what Lex would do; knew that he would do just as Batman had done the first time, locking him away in a tower until all the life was gone out of him, coveting that precious exotic jewel because his own heart was bitter and cold. He could not allow that to happen to Clark-- not _again._

 **"He isn't yours, princeling,** " and with that, Batman was dipping downwards, knees bending as he swiped a hand towards Lex's body.

As he swung, Lex deftly leapt over the attack, though it took all his effort to do so. He had been preparing for this battle, and now he drove up, summoning the dark magics that he had mastered, and his blade sung with a sick, purple-black lightning that danced across the metal and coiled up along his arm.

"More mine than he was ever yours." Lex hissed, his voice almost as inhuman as the Batman’s

The sword drove deep into the creature's gut, using Batman's weight and forward motion against him. It was much harder than he'd expected it to be, and Lex buckled under the sudden weight thrown down onto the hilt, onto his hand, staggering down underneath the falling creature.

"And now you die," he hissed, reaching up to pull the Batman's head closer to his own. "How does it feel to have loved and lost, monstrous fiend? To lose to me?"

Batman only smiled, uncaring about the blood that was no doubt staining his teeth. He could feel and taste the metal, and he reached out, the edges of his wing sharp. He shoved himself back, deepening and widening the gaping wound on the sword as he did so- but he slashed his wing against Lex's face. Once, twice, three times- then downwards, a slice against his chest, deep enough for him to bleed out if he didn't receive medical attention. Then, at the same time, his other wing slammed straight into Lex's groin.

He didn't know why he didn't aim for a killing blow; Lex's throat was so near to him. But Clark's face had flashed in front of him like a spectre, and Batman's breath had hitched, and his wings and claws had changed direction before he realised what he had done. He shouldn't have, but- but like this, with these scars, Lex would never be looked at the same way.

" **He's not yours,** " there was no mockery in his voice, but fact. Known fact, steady as Clark's heartbeat when Batman had carried him out to the tree, weeks and a lifetime ago; steady like Clark's arm around himself as they had taken to the skies.

" **Even if you might steal his body, you will never have his heart.** "

As Batman started to fall to the ground, his knees folding beneath himself, he could hear Lex screaming. It was distant, as if through a fog- and his hand was pressing futilely against the heavy wound opened up at his stomach. It wasn't going to heal; no matter the magic of the castle, no matter what Alfred did, the wound would bleed until Batman had no blood left within him.

Lex had used dark magic. That didn't bode well for Metropolis, did it...? Someone should do something about that- he should have done something. But not now. Now, he could hear the others coming in, weapons raised; they could smell blood, and knew the beast's end was near, and though their leader was injured, each considered the victory their own already. A monster's head would make a magnificent trophy.

There was blood on his lips, and Batman was prepared to grab the sword from his stomach and fight with it when it came--a bellowing roar like a lion. Batman turned, eyes widening when he saw that it was a horse that crashed through the rose bushes, rearing up, feathered hooves flashing in the air, beating Luthor and the other men away.

It was Lois, dressed in fine Wayne armour, the bat sigil across her chest, and Clark, raising his sword up in the air, shining in his matching golden armour. Again he urged Lois on, and she seemed to know what to do, rearing again so that Lex scurried, even bloodied and wounded as he was, to get out from underneath her killing weight. Clark drove his sword down at the others, and they scattered, some dropping their weapons in their hurry to get away.

When the horse came down there was a moment of bristling pause, and then heat seared through the sky, burning red lasers chasing Lex and his horde. Batman wondered if he was becoming delirious, because Clark's eyes were literally on fire, and he blinked, watching as his gentle farmboy charged after the quickly-retreating men. He was absolutely magnificent, gleaming in the gold armour, sword rallying high. Lois' hooves were a thunder only drowned out by Batman's own struggling heartbeat.

"Leave! Leave, and never come back!"

And they ran. They ran with tails between their legs, torches dropped to the ground carelessly. By some miracle, even Lex had left as well, still clutching at his face and groin, throwing himself on his saddle and bleeding still as he urged his horse to run. He had thrown a look behind at Clark that had gone entirely unnoticed by those left behind.

When Lex - the last to leave - was finally gone from the Wayne grounds, Clark yelled in victory. The gates swung shut behind them with a ringing, final clang, though they were crooked in places from the assault. Turning Lois he drove her back toward the fallen beast, half jumping half flying out of the saddle to land by his side.

"I'm here. They're gone. Batman..."

There was so much blood. With an effort Clark heaved the sword out of his chest, moving forward to press his hands to the wound. There were tears in his blue eyes. Batman blinked at that, reaching up with one wing, stroking against the flawless white cheek. What he had seen... Clark was like an avenging angel coming down from the skies, his eyes burning and chasing away evil.

Except that he was kneeling beside him. Batman could feel blood in his mouth, and every breath made the blood bubble at the back of his throat. He knew that he was going to die, and for a moment he thought of the rose in his room. The last petal wasn't ever going to fall; he wasn't going to wait for it.

He swallowed back a mouthful of blood and saliva before speaking, his voice low and weakening, "Your eyes... you have such beautiful eyes..." he stroked against his cheek. "You- you could've flown all this time on your own. Could've... fought them off... easily." Clark's cheek was so warm.

"Don't- stay here," he took a ragged breath. "Go home. Help people. You-" he sucked in a breath, swallowed the blood again. He felt like he was choking. "You're so beautiful. So amazing. Clark..."

Clark's hand reached up, trembling as it wrapped around the clawed fingers that stroked his cheek, his eyes stinging as tears budded in them. He held tightly and stared, seeming barely able to find his breath. Visible behind his eyes was a single horrible thought-- _I brought this upon him. I'm the reason he's dying._

Moving tentatively, Clark brought his hand down to Batman's face and let his soft fingertips explore the contoured edges. In the Darkness he was difficult to see, but for the red of his eyes. His thumb brushed warm wetness and instantly he knew that it was not tears but blood that he touched, and his face twisted in pain.

"I have...loved every minute I've spent in your company, and even if you were cold at first, I know that it was only with my best interests at heart that you pushed me away."

Again Clark stroked; his heart was breaking.

"But I don't want you to die. I'd do anything, even give my own life, if it meant that you didn't have to suffer this way."

His lips brushed Batman's forehead, his eyes closing. The tears were coming thick and heavy now, and they fell like hot raindrops onto Batman's skin. Cold raindrops followed--the storm broke finally, high above them, releasing a torrent of rain that soaked them both to the bone almost instantly. Clark fell against his chest sodden, his hair sticking to his face, his breath hitching as he cried.

"No," Batman said immediately, and he sat up halfway before his wound screamed at him. He choked, coughing, falling back down and turning his head, throwing up red and black that melted against the soil in the rain, slowly being washed away. He could barely see anymore- but he had to speak. He had to, somehow.

Pulling his hand away from Clark's, he reached up, cupping his cheek, careful to not scratch him with his claws. It was difficult to find Clark's eyes through the rain and the internal fog, but Batman managed it somehow, fixing his gaze on Clark before he spoke again, his voice barely above a soft rasp:

"Don't... say that." He bit back his words, that he was going to die soon anyway. He wouldn't say that; wouldn't cause Clark further grief and sorrow. For this man, words like that would only make everything worse. He took a breath- and spoke faster, his words starting to trip against each other.

"I don't want you to die for me. I-" he smiled slightly, knowing that it looked grotesque, red blood on white, pointed teeth. His vision was slowly disappearing, but he had to say this, even if it was the last thing he ever did. He had to-

"Live. Live, because-" Batman swallowed, forcing his heavy eyes open one last time. "Because I love you."

The words were spoken into frightening silence as Batman stopped breathing, his chest falling still under Clark's hands, his eyes rolling back. What life was left rattled out of him, gone, and Clark bit down on another sob that felt despairing, throwing his arms once more around the still form.

"I love you too," he breathed, fighting past the tears that rose in his throat to pour the words out on dead bat-ears. It was too late; Batman could no longer hear him, and when had he fallen in love with this grotesque creature, he wondered? When had he forgotten that he was a monster and fallen in love with him none-the-less. With the lonely soul underneath, who sometimes looked out through those same red eyes? With the Batman who had taken him flying and fought off wolves at the risk of his own life.

"I love you too," he repeated, and kissed the still warm, unmoving lips. "Please don't die. Please--"

But he already knew it was too late, and even as the rain continued to fall, even as he pushed his face into Batman's throat and held the body against his own as he cried, he knew that nothing he could do, or say, could possibly bring him back. His heart ached, sorrow wrapping its cold arms around him, and he no longer cared that he was soaking wet and bitterly cold, that the hypothermia could kill him. Someone he loved had been ripped from his world, just as they were getting to really know each other.

"Please." His sobs were incoherent now; they blended together just as they mixed with the raindrops.

Batman didn't hear the words; he couldn't hear anything. But the magic that surrounded him and the castle did, and at Clark's words and tears, those magics awoke again. There was a soft whispering sigh in the air, like a single waft of wind, but it smelled like sweet jasmine flowers.

A moment more. Clark sobbed again, his words mangled but pleading, utterly sincere, utterly ignorant. The magics seemed to smile to themselves- then there was lightning in the skies, bright lights that pierced through the clouds themselves to land around Clark and the Batman. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; seven was a lucky number, a magical number. Seven lightning strikes in a circle around the two of them.

A perfect circle.

Then there was light. The rain stopped, chased away by the magic themselves, and the stars and moon peeked out of the clouds. The moon's light landed directly on Batman, and his wounds seemed to close slowly right in front of Clark's eyes. As Clark stared, gaping, Batman was healed by the moon's light as the winds around them picked up, turning whispers into heaving roars. His lips parted as if to ask what was going on-

A particularly sharp gust of wind, and Clark was blown backwards, out of the circle of light. He stumbled, throwing an arm in front of his eyes because everything was suddenly so bright. Batman's body couldn't be seen anymore, swallowed by the light, and Clark's breathing hitched. What happened- what could have happened to Batman's body? The tears were drying on his cheeks, but he barely noticed, trying to stare into the heart of the sun itself even as the light threatened to sear his sight from him.

Slowly, the light seemed to fade, but Batman could not be found. There was only a man. A tall man on his knees, staring blankly at his own hands. The man looked up, lips parting- he had blue eyes. Blue, not red.

"Clark?"

Just for a moment he stared, and then Clark raised his hands, rubbing in disbelief at his eyes as though somehow what he saw before him would vanish only to be replaced with reality again. The Batman's dead body laid out before him, rather than this...man.

A handsome man, with crisp dark hair and blue eyes, who spoke his name with reverence and affection.

"Batman?"

He hesitated, looking into those eyes, and it was impossible to tell; he didn't know what to think, looking around again in desperation before knee-crawling just a little closer, reaching up to touch the man's cheek, only to jump briefly at the sensation. He was warm, alive, and when Clark closed his eyes and listened, he could hear his heart beating.

The same heartbeat as the Batman.

Immediately his eyes opened again, shock settling in them, bright and unrefined. "It _is_ you!"

And there was no holding him back. Clark flung his arms around the man's shoulders and pressed against him, buried his face into the bare neck.

"I thought I'd lost you. How--?" Pulling back, he stared, eyes running over the other man's face, trying to memorise every inch and facet; the more he looked, the more he could see Batman's face. How was this possible? The questions, though, could wait.

"Batman--" Clark began.

"Bruce," Batman corrected, suddenly, his voice hoarse and raspy from disuse. His hand cupped against Clark's jaw, thumb pressing against his chin, then up to trace the line of his lips. He swallowed, and looked incredibly uncomfortable for a moment, his arm loose around Clark's back. It was odd; he had never really noticed how tall Clark was until now.

Another breath, and Batman continued, "My name is Bruce. Prince Bruce, of the House of Wayne. Though- though, you can just call me Bruce."

Batman- Bruce was looking at Clark as if he was the most precious thing he had ever seen, the greatest of gifts he could have ever been given. His thumb had now moved towards Clark's cheekbone, tracing the line of it as if he was trying, too, to memorise the lines of his face. To touch him with human fingers, without the inconvenience of claws preventing him from feeling and memorising the exact contours, the smoothness of his cheek, the sunlight warmth of his skin.

"You saved me," he said after a long pause. "You're so beautiful, and I was a monster, changed by a witch's curse so my outside suited my insides." His voice was strangely shaky, completely unlike the fearsome tone that he had used during their first meeting. "But you saw through it, and you saved me."

He was cupping Clark's face with both hands now, leaning in to kiss him.

Gentle, chaste though the kiss was, it was seconded by a charge of emotion thrumming beneath Clark's skin, and the following kiss was deeper, Clark leaning up against him, winding one hand in black hair that was absolutely not fur, closing his eyes.

It was difficult to believe; Prince Bruce. His Batman was a Prince, put under a spell, made impossible to love--and yet Clark had fallen in love with him. They had flown together, fought for each other's lives, and at times mourned for the loss of each other; and yes, fallen in love.

Fallen hard.

A discreet cough came from one side, and Clark jumped away, moving behind Bruce at the sight; an old man with swept back grey hair and kind eyes stood above them, holding out a dressing gown by its shoulders, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Alfred's voice was soft.

"If it please you, Master Wayne, I believe your current state of undress to be inappropriate when entertaining guests." A nod to Clark. "Mister Kent. I would like to extend my thanks on behalf of the Wayne family and of myself. I never doubted you, Sir."

There was a blush painting Bruce's pale cheeks red when he pulled back, and he felt it—a burning, unfamiliar heat. It was an odd sensation, and he brushed against his own cheek with his fingers, then down to his own lips that Clark had kissed. Then, it seemed as if Alfred's words and presence had finally registered, and he spun around, finally realising that he was stark naked - monsters didn't fit into any of Prince Wayne's clothes - and nearly snatched the dressing gown out of Alfred's hand before pulling it on himself.

He cleared his throat, looking at his loyal butler for a long moment, dressed in a dressing gown and nothing else and feeling faintly ridiculous. Then, slowly, he reached out and drew Alfred into a tight hug. Something he hadn't been able to do while Alfred had been missing physically, trapped inside the stone of the Manor itself.

"It's good to see you, old friend."

Turning around, he wrapped his hand around Clark's wrist, pulling him closer. He didn't miss the chance to stroke against the inside of the wrist, or to cup his face again, staring into those brilliant, brilliant eyes. Looking at him like this, with eyes used to the daylight more than night-time, Clark was so incredibly stunning.

"I don't think you need an introduction," he murmured quietly, the words entirely for Clark even as he motioned towards Alfred. "But this is Alfred Pennyworth, my... butler." A flickering smile. "He's the one who has been feeding you all this time."

"You have always been kind to me," Clark answered. "I felt you watching over both of us; your pain and your joy. Thank you, Alfred."

They shook hands, and Clark offered another warm smile toward Bruce, raising his free hand a little higher to brush his black hair delicately back away from his face, as though seeing him again for the first time--all wonder and joy. Alfred dared not interrupt them both again, and stood quietly by while Clark stared.

After a moment he said: "Dinner will be prepared by the time you both return to the house, Master Wayne. If there's not anything else?"

He strode away when there was no reply forthcoming, smiling to himself. His Prince was happy, and the House of Wayne promised once again to thrive. He was no longer trapped as a castle, and life was good. Lois trotted after him, nudging at his pockets until Alfred produced an apple as though from nowhere and patted the horse's shoulder.

His last words reached their ears only because he raised his voice pointedly to do so:

"Come on, girl. Let's leave our young lovers to their peace, shall we?"

And again they stared into each other's eyes.

"Um--" Clark breathed. "You should probably get dressed."

Bruce looked at him for a long moment, and swallowed quietly. Slowly, he reached up and traced his fingers over the lines of Clark's face, starting from the end of his hairline then moving down. Feeling the warmth of his skin against his own, then the sharp angles of his cheekbones, then the strong jaw... tracing each inch of this exquisite face. He knew that he was being rude and improper; that he didn't bid Alfred goodbye when he walked away, or greet him properly now that he had returned. But it was okay; he could do that later—and Alfred always understood him.

Right now, he had all the time in the world. All the time he had ever wanted.

"I should," he said, voice low and rough, almost reminiscent of Batman's. He really should take a bath and dress, to dust the clothes he had worn as a human and wear them again. To help Alfred clean up the house and to start planning to make sure that Lex Luthor would never darken their doorstep again. There was so much to do.

So much, but Clark was in front of him. With one glance, Bruce forgot all 'shoulds' and 'have tos', cupping Clark's face in both hands. He leaned in and kissed him again, soft and gently, their lips barely touching. Then he made a small noise and buried a hand in Clarks's hair, pressing their lips more forcefully together, nipping at the bottom one and taking advantage of Clark's surprise to lick against the roof of his mouth.

When the kiss broke, Clark was laughing, tears of joy in his eyes, and he placed both of his hands on Bruce's cheeks and ran them down until just his fingers touched his face. His unbelievably sky blue eyes sparkled, as though his tears were crystals, and he pressed his laughing lips once more against Bruce's own.

"I love you," Clark whispered, again. One shape or another, it didn't matter; the love, he knew, had formed in him long ago, when he had been drawn here away from his parents, when the Batman had flown up before him and fought off wolves. When he had handed him a glass apple. When they had soared through the skies together. And now; now with magic all around them, and Bruce - his Prince - finally himself, able to express the love that he felt.

Clark still laughed in his lips and eyes, even if he was silent. His fingers stroked Bruce's cheeks for a moment longer, and then he drew back, stepping back until he was at arm's length, holding both of Bruce's hands in his own. He felt like he could fly.

And they did--up, up into the sky together, soaring into the starlit night with Bruce in his dressing gown, and Clark hand in hand with him. No wings, just magic--Clark's magic.

Bruce gasped quietly as he felt himself rising upwards, looking down to the ground, eyes wide with wonder. The one inadvertent gift that his curse had given him was the gift of flight, though it had taken him long to choose to practice it, and even longer to wish to use it. He would have missed it, if he had more time to think.

Yet now flight was given back to him, in the shape of a beautiful, powerful man who for some inexplicable reason loved him. Bruce looked at him for a long moment, words failing him because they simply weren't enough. What words could describe the sheer swell of emotions that just one glance at this man evoked in him? What could he possibly say that would be sufficient to tell Clark that he had never once felt anything so strongly, so happily, even before he had been cursed?

Slowly, he slid his hand into Clark's hair, curling slightly at the base of his neck, tugging at the small hairs there. Then, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Clark's again, briefly. When he pulled back, leaning his forehead against Clark’s, his breath was ragged from the swell of emotions rising in him.

"It was worth it," Bruce said, his voice a little hoarse, almost dipping into Batman's. "Everything. Being under the curse and having to wait.. it was all worth it."

 _Because now I have you._

 

 __

the end

**Author's Note:**

> skykissesthesea@LJ is wonderful to work with, and please leave her feedback for her awesome art! ♥ I have to confess that while I posted this, regasssa@LJ worked a lot harder on the fic and the editing.


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